Voronwër
by Lady Lestat
Summary: As this is a story based mainly around the elves my title is in Elvish and mean 'Steadfast'. Evil is trying to take Middle Earth, but seems to think attacking Mirkwood first is the way to go. Why could this be?...
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer** - _I don't own the Lord of the Rings. Anyway, now that that's out of the way, read and enjoy!  
_  
The orcs howls and shrieks echoed wildly into the night accompanied by an assortment of clangs and thuds as the battle raged on. The trees of Mirkwood were swaying, their branches whipping about in the wind, their leaves rustling loudly as if in anger.  
  
The group of Elven warriors from King Thranduil's fortress was no bigger than twenty strong yet they still managed to beat the repulsive creatures back. The King's son, Legolas, was among the warriors and his skill with weapons was rivalled by no one.   
  
The golden haired Prince whirled gracefully, twirling his two white knives as he went and promptly sank the blades into an orcs chest before twisting once more to plunge them up to the hilt into the back of another.  
  
It had been like this the whole previous week. Orcs and spiders from the dark shadow of Mordor had been multiplying in the forest recently and the Mirkwood guards had been fighting them non stop without pause for recuperation. No one knew why the dark forces had suddenly focussed all their energies on Thranduil's kingdom but it was all they could do to keep them at bay for as long as possible.  
  
The King himself had been loath to allow his only son and heir to fight in such frequent and concentrated attacks. However he had been forced to relent as, whether he liked it or not, Legolas was his best warrior and it would have been pointless and possibly costly if he didn't allow him to fight. Or at least that was what his son had told him anyway.  
  
The Queen of Mirkwood had died several centuries ago in an Orc attack such as this and it was partly for this reason that Thranduil disliked letting his son leave the safety of the Elven fortress and also the reason that Legolas was adamant to fight, vowing that an horrific incident such as the one that had befallen his mother would never happen again.  
  
So, as it was, the King of Mirkwood found himself worrying and pacing his study carpet to shreds while the Prince of Mirkwood sliced, chopped and generally disembowelled anything slimy that moved.  
  
A handsome, dark haired elf by the name of Maltalossë blocked and swung his sword in a graceful arc to decapitate the Orc nearest to him. There was a brief lull in the fighting as most of the Orcish army had by now been dispatched. Maltalossë took this opportunity to glance over at Legolas and give him a friendly grin. The two elves had grown up as warriors in training together and shared a special bond.  
  
It was this special bond that had gotten the two into a great deal of trouble on more than one occasion. The Prince and the Head armourer's son trusted each other deeply and would do anything for the other. This meant that whenever one had gotten caught doing something they shouldn't around the palace the other would automatically sacrifice themselves to the blame in their friends place.   
  
Unfortunately this continued into their warrior years and so injury whilst saving the other from a near fatal wound had become commonplace driving both fathers to despair over their children.   
  
Legolas returned the grin cheerfully as he tossed his hair, complete with twin warrior braids, over his shoulders and out of his clear, deep blue eyes. It was agreed by the elves of any kingdom, whether it be Mirkwood, Rivendell or Lothlorien alike, on the subject of the Prince.   
  
Legolas had the personality of his late mother; carefree and joyful yet with a terrific temper when provoked badly enough and the strong, handsome chiselled looks of his father though it was again from his mother that he got his extraordinarily expressive eyes.   
  
Trusting that the other elves in the group had the remaining Orc infestation under control and seeing no immediate threat to himself, Maltalossë began to stride across the clearing to Legolas. What the elf didn't see was an Orc that, until now, had remained hidden in the bushes and was creeping up behind him with an arrow notched in it's crudely fashioned bow.  
  
For Legolas, time seemed to stand still, all sounds had faded out apart from the distant whistling of the wind in the treetops. His friend's smile was slowly faltering. The prince sprinted towards him as fast as his legs would allow, he had run out of arrows some time ago and was now cursing himself for not having the initiative to pick some more up.  
  
He drew a knife as he ran but the angle wasn't right, branches from the nearby bushes and Maltalossë stood in between his blade and the Orcish archer. Realizing what he had to do, Legolas steeled himself for the blow that would come and threw himself at his friend, twisting them round as they fell to the floor, and prayed that the Orc would miss.  
  
Whilst time had slowed down for his friend, it seemed that it had behaved in the opposite manner for Maltalossë. One second he and Legolas were sharing a cheerful grin and the next he found himself being barrelled into by said friend and collapsed to the floor with an armful of royal warrior and a face full of blond hair.   
  
Moving slightly he was about to laugh and ask the King's son what he thought he was doing when an unearthly screech briefly pierced the air and he glimpsed an Orc being cut down just a few metres from the spot he'd had his back to just moments ago.  
  
Feeling slightly apprehensive, Maltalossë peered down anxiously.   
  
"Legolas? Are you all right?"  
  
A soft groan caught his ears and the dark haired elf gently rolled his friend onto his side. By this time the other warriors had finished up and had come running over to see what had transpired.  
  
"Maltalossë? What is wrong with the Prince, is he injured?"  
  
Legolas' face had tensed up; his eyebrows knit in obvious pain and his teeth were clenched together as if preventing a cry of distress. Coming across something warm and sticky Maltalossë froze. Removing his hands from Legolas' back he brought them round to his face where he gasped in shock and horror as they were stained bright red and dripping from the rapidly spreading crimson stain that was suffusing the Prince's tunic.   
  
"Get a healer!"   
  
"We don't have one," cried one of the younger of the group in dismay, "not one able to deal with a hurt such as this!"  
  
"Then make a stretcher," said Maltalossë in desperation, "we must get him back to the palace soon ere he bleeds to death!"  
  
As half the band hurried off to do as he bid, the distraught elf moved to get a closer look at the arrow embedded in his friends back. Carefully sweeping the once gleaming hair, now matted with blood, he realized with a shock that there was something trapped between the flesh and the arrow tip.   
  
It was a piece of parchment, spattered with scarlet, but Maltalossë could still see black markings on it. Seeing the rest of the company coming towards him with a makeshift stretcher (two long sticks with a cloak tied between them) he quickly tore the paper slightly to free the note and stuffed it in his pocket to show the King later.  
  
The Elves set the stretcher down and positioned themselves around their Prince. Before they went anywhere they knew they would have to remove the arrow. Not wanting to cause his friend any more pain, but knowing that it would cause him more harm in the long run, Maltalossë nodded at them to take hold of the limp arms and legs.   
  
Getting a firm grasp on the end of the arrow shaft, the dark-haired elf offered up a brief prayer to the Valar before counting to three and yanking the arrow out as swiftly as possible. Legolas screamed in agony, arching his back and straining to thrash his limbs under the strong hold of his fellow warriors.  
  
Looking on miserably, Maltalossë spoke softly to his friend, trying to calm him down. Eventually the golden haired Elf settled down and they temporarily bound the wound with strips of cloth torn from cloaks as none of the bandages they did carry would have sufficed.  
  
Positioning the Prince tenderly on the stretcher and covering him with his previously unused cloak to keep him warm the guards set off. They moved as quickly as they dared without causing further injuries to Legolas' still form nestled in the cloak. Maltalossë was silent, as were they all, silently thinking of the dreadful moment when the King found out what had befallen his son.  
  
Back in the palace Thranduil suddenly stopped pacing in his study The trees were restless, calling out in sorrow and warning. Striding to his balcony The king looked out across the forest with a terrible sense of foreboding.  
  
'What has happened to you my son?'   
  
**AN** - _Well I hope you all had a good time reading this, I certainly put enough work into it so I hope you will all review and let me know what you think because it will make my day! :) I hope I have appeased all of you Legolas torture fans although if I haven't, then let me assure you, the fun isn't over yet, there is plenty more in store for our favourite elf! Till next time, Namarië!_


	2. Chapter II

**Disclaimer **- _I don't own the Lord of the Rings, if I did I would be a very contented millionaire._

The previously sunny day had taken a turn for the worse. Clouds darkened the horizon and the shadows of the forest seemed to grow longer and gave off an ominous aura. The bundle on the stretcher shifted briefly in pain as it was jostled slightly as the elves navigated a fallen beech tree.

Glancing concernedly down at his friend, Maltalossë grew further worried as he took in the Elven Prince's paler than usual complexion now marred with sweat. Legolas' breathing was steady but shallow and blood was still flowing from the wound which should have ceased long ago due to his Elven healing abilities.

White stone loomed at them amongst the foliage. The returning guards were met with loud gasps of disbelief and soon there could be heard a flurry of movement from behind the walls of the Elven King's fortress as the gate keepers strove to open the doors.

Ignoring the looks of horror on the faces of the passers-by, Maltalossë picked up his pace forcing the other stretcher bearers to increase theirs also. Cries for a healer went up, urgently echoing about the courtyard. As they ascended the steps to the palace a healer came dashing down the steps to meet them half way.

The she-elf took in the Prince's ashen complexion and the stain that saturated his tunic with a grim countenance and urgently gestured for the group to make their way into the healing wing. On entering the area, an assistant quickly threw back the blankets and Legolas was gently transferred onto the bed.

The healer was a small dainty sort of elf with mousy hair and slightly watery pale blue eyes and Maltalossë suddenly felt he should offer to send for more help since she appeared so frail. It was a bad mistake.

Having not had dealings with this particular nurse before he was quite unprepared for the sudden narrow glare the lady gave the room at large before promptly shepherding them all out proclaiming that she could hardly save lives with half the border guard breathing down her neck as she worked.

It was because of this that the dark haired young elf found himself looking bemusedly at the finer detailing of an oak panelled door and wondering how he'd got there. These thoughts were swiftly interrupted as it was at this point that the King Thranduil chose to barrel down the hallway having bullied the predicament his son was in out of one of the poor palace guards he had happened upon.

"Where is he? Where is my son, I must see him at once!" The Elven King bellowed as he scanned the vicinity for a likely informant. Striding up to Maltalossë Thranduil glared at the young elf with suspicion. "He's in there isn't he. What did you get him into this time? Do not answer that, open this door now!"

The petite nurse gave her patient a critical once over to determine that the arrow wound actually was the only injury sustained. Satisfied that it was, she set about deftly removing the Prince's tunic, cutting away the parts that were difficult. She would not know the true extent of the damage until it was cleaned up so she reached for the warm water and cloth to bathe the blood encrusted shoulder.

Nuilwen had been a healer a long time, the majority of her years spent in the realm of Lothlorien, and she had come upon and treated many an arrow wound in her time. However, there was something about this puncture that did not appear quite normal. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, she could swear that an odd metallic silver substance was mixed in with Legolas' blood causing it to glimmer more than usual in the well lit chamber.

As she leant forward to get a better view a loud bang caused her to jump as Legolas' father came into the ward, his face drawn with anxiety at the sight of his son.

"How is he?" The King asked tentatively, all his previous panicked anger gone as he glimpsed the unmoving form on the bed. The atmosphere in the chamber was heavy and one felt the need for hushed tones such as that which could be found in a library. Nuilwen seemed a little uncomfortable for a moment as she glanced quickly back at her patient, unsure of whether she should voice her concerns.

She was in the act of opening her mouth to begin some sort of appeasement for her King when a muffled groan came from the golden haired elf lying amidst the blankets. The attention of both Elves went immediately to Legolas' trembling eyelids as they blinked several times before blearily opening to settle and focus on Thranduil.

"-I…"

"Yes, what is it? Don't strain yourself, you must rest," began Thranduil gently. He was prevented from finishing, however, as Legolas suddenly sprang to his feet and swiped a surgical knife from a nearby nightstand. If a little unsteadily the Elven prince brandished the stolen blade before him and advanced on the King with a strange look in his eyes; distant, yet vicious.

The nurse gasped in terror and scrambled back to the other side of the room to get away from the Prince, who was steadily advancing on his father with a murderous visage. Thranduil remained where he was, too shocked to move a muscle. What was he to do? Had his son fallen to insanity?

The door banged open for the second time that day as Maltalossë stumbled through the entrance. The sudden loud noise seemed to have a jolting effect on Legolas as his expression cleared and he dropped the knife as though he didn't realize he had been holding it.

Gasping at his light-headedness and with confusion at the rapid recession of the pressure behind his eyes, Legolas turned just in time to witness his best friend tumble dramatically to the floor in faint.

**AN **- _I hope all my readers enjoyed this instalment now that I have finally posted it. I'm sorry for the wait, but be happy in the knowledge that I, for the first time ever, actually have a story plan! Please review to let me know what you think of the story's progression so far. Flames are welcome, however, they will need reasons to back them up. Till next time, Namarië!_


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